


birds of north america

by plutoandpersephone



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Archaeologist Hank, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Letters, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Naturalist Connor, Pet Names, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone
Summary: The year is 1923. Dr Henry “Hank” Anderson is a prolific but solitary archaeologist living in an old estate on the US/Canada border. One day, he receives a letter and feels compelled to reply.(Originally posted as a thread on Twitter.)





	1. first

**Author's Note:**

> this was posted as a thread on twitter, but i thought i would archive it here to make it easier for people to read and find! one day i hope this will get the 500k slow burn that it deserves, but until then - enjoy.

The year is 1923. Dr Henry “Hank” Anderson is a prolific but solitary archaeologist living in an old estate on the US/Canada border. He’s well published in scientific journals, known for his divisive and sometimes controversial opinions. Very little is known about his personal life, although there are rumours that he was married once, rumours of a child. Less frequently, there’s talk of some scandal - not academic in nature - that forced him to isolate himself from social circles. 

He’s normally seen in purely academic situations, attending digs or conferences, a rough and commanding character with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his long grey hair tied back into a ponytail. Stoic, distant, incredibly smart. He has a dedicated following, a small portion of who write him letters containing their reviews and opinions of his more recent work. He reads all of the letters and occasionally responds, brief and terse words of thanks. Over time, he’s able to recognise most of the names that write to him. 

Until one day, when he gets a letter postmarked _Florida_. The handwriting is unfamiliar, the tone different to the usual academic reviews. “Dear Dr Anderson, I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing following your recent publication about the discoveries on the Lawson Site...” The letter continues, witty and smart, with interesting insights. The writer signs off: Connor Stern. 

Hank reads the letter through three times, sitting on his porch overlooking Lake Superior. Birds dive over the black water as he tries to imagine this Connor Stern. Younger than him, by the tone of his words. Educated, surely a scientist himself. He feels compelled to reply. 

He writes back, and instead of just words of thanks and remarks about his work, he finds himself asking questions about Connor. _What do you do?_ Hank asks. What he really wants to ask is: _who are you?_

Connor’s reply arrives a week later. He’s studying to be a doctor - of naturalism, rather than archeology, as Hank is. He encloses a few of his field sketches, strange beetles and bright butterflies of the like that Hank has never seen before. Undeniably, the man has talent. They exchange letters back and forth for months, each letter becoming more personal until there are paragraphs of well wishes before they talk about anything of scientific interest. Hank’s chest clenches tightly when he sees the envelopes on his doormat, Connor’s looping hand. 

Connor signs off his latest: “We have been communicating for several months and I have yet to see a picture of you, Henry. If you have any prints or photographs of yourself, I would like to see them. Kindest regards, Connor.”

Hank can’t remember the last time he had his photograph taken; they were certainly never taken to accompany any of his publications. So he finds someone to take his photo, saying that it’s about time he shared in the wonders of modern technology. No one questions him further. The photograph is a good likeness and he encloses it in his next letter to Connor. “Apologies for the lateness of my letter,” he writes. “I had to find someone here who would take this old man’s photograph. Perhaps you could send me yours in return?”

Connor replies within the week, another long letter with a photograph included. A man in his mid-thirties, with curly brown hair and a bright, open face. He wears a smart, sharp outfit, fashionable but practical enough for the work that he might be doing. He’s standing next to a young woman, her blonde hair tied back in a bun. 

Hank looks at the photo for a long time before he even reads Connor’s letter. The man is beautiful, he thinks. He wonders what it would be like to see him smile. 

He props the picture up against his bureau as he reads Connor’s letter. “Dear Henry, thank you for your photograph. I hope it is not improper to say, but you are a fine looking man. I have included a photograph of myself. I apologise, but I had no solo portraits, so here I am standing with my wife, Chloe.” 

_My wife._ Of course. Of course.

Why wouldn't a man like him - with good prospects, clever, handsome - have a wife? Hank berates himself his stupid thoughts and tries to calm the nervous rolling in his stomach that occurs when he thinks about Connor, the quickening of his heartbeat when he looks upon that pale, serious face. 

They continue to correspond, of course. Despite his somewhat unique feelings for Connor, Hank finds him a bright and inquisitive mind, someone who he enjoys writing to as a fellow scientist and a colleague. Perhaps he tries to make himself a little less personable, a little less open. Perhaps. 

Sometimes, though, Connor's comments bring back that bright flash of longing into his chest. On seeing his photograph: "you are a fine looking man". On hearing of his living situation, just him, his dog Sumo and Lake Superior: "I think about you and that wide, calm lake". Hank can't help but wonder if Connor feels some of what he does, although he doesn't dare to speak it.

They write throughout 1923, and at Christmas time, Hank receives a message from Connor - written on the back of an artist's impression of the Everglades. He thinks about a Christmas time without snow, and mentions as such in his next letter to Connor. "You grow used to it," Connor replies. "Although I miss the snow." He finds out that Connor is actually from the north, like him, and that he grew up in Michigan. Hank throws caution to the winds and writes that: "if you ever return to your home state, you have my address."

Connor is polite, although it's not exactly an acceptance or a rejection of Hank's suggestion. Hank tries to bury his embarrassment and forget that he ever said it, but in the spring of 1924, Connor ends a letter with a postscript that makes Hank's heart sing.

"PS. In May, I will be visiting a colleague at the natural history collections in Ann Arbor, Michigan. If you have not already seen it, I suspect that you would enjoy their anthropology collection."

Hank writes his reply to Connor, leaves out any mention of the invitation until his own postscript. God, what he wouldn't give to meet this man in person. To see him in the flesh. He mulls over the prospect during many sleepless nights and leaves his reply unsealed, sitting at his desk beneath the window. All written apart from the postscript.

In the end, he accepts, brief and non-committal. "If you send further details, I will check my schedule."

Is he brave? He doesn't feel it. 

In mid-May, he packs up his things and heads to Ann Arbor. A friend of his has found him a room at the University of Michigan - not the most glamorous of lodgings and certainly a far cry from his usual solitude, but he feels content, despite his ridiculous, boyish nerves. 

Upon arrival, he finds that Connor has left him a message asking for him to join him and Dr Manfred in the collections at his earliest convenience. There is a drawing attached, a bright blue butterfly with orange tipped wings. 

The next morning, Connor meets him on the steps of his building. He's taller than Hank had expected, older than in his photograph, his face lightly lined. Hank suspects he is just shy of thirty-five, twenty years Hank's junior. He has dark freckles across every inch of his pale skin, and the gold-brown of his eyes makes Hank's chest hurt. He's clearly been working for a while already, whilst Hank was sleeping off yesterday's travel. He wears a pair of thick rimmed spectacles and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to show his forearms. The minute he sees Hank, he gives the widest, brightest smile. Hank wants to embrace him, hold him tight to his chest, but he knows that the courtyard of a university, filled with people going about their daily business, is no place for it. If there's going to be a place for it at all. 

"Dr Anderson! It's good to finally meet you!" he exclaims, hand extended. Hank shakes it.

"Hank is fine, you know that."

"Well, then you must call me Connor," Connor grins, shielding his eyes from the mid morning sunlight, taking Hank in. "You're taller than I expected." 

Together, they walk to the building where the collections are housed. Connor speaks a little about his work, but mostly Hank just catches him staring.

"What is it?" he asks.

"It's-" Connor's face colours a little. "You know. You're real."

Hank nods. He knows. 

The building is cool and dark, not one of the areas on campus that is open to the general public. Connor introduces him to Dr Markus Manfred, a calm, quiet man who shakes Hank's hand and shows him a recently dissected beetle. Hank thinks they might get along quite well. Hank spends the afternoon in the Great Lakes Division of the collection, making drawings and notes. He sees a few artefacts that he himself excavated: ceramics, copper, polished shell. 

Connor and Dr Manfred work upstairs in the zoology division. The afternoon wears on, and as the light is beginning to fade, there's a knock at the door. It's Connor, with four sandwiches wrapped in paper and a silver hip flask.

"Markus has returned to his rooms for the day. I thought you might be hungry."

Hank gratefully eats what Connor offers him, cheese and crusty bread. He turns down the hip flask. Connor eats too, and drinks. He doesn't question Hank's refusal.

"There's something I'd like to show you, Dr An- Hank."

Hank can feel his heart beating in the hollow of his throat. When they’ve finished eating, Connor leads him upstairs. The rooms upstairs are deserted lines of corridors that Connor walks him through, until they reach one of the larger collection rooms. Connor takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door. Inside, the lights are all off apart from one, which is focused on the long table in the centre. In the middle of the table, there is a book. 

Despite himself, Hank is a little disappointed. The book is huge, as tall as Connor's torso, and he opens it with something akin to reverence. Inside are huge paintings of birds, huge, bright, life-like.

"I wanted to share this with you."

At the sight of Connor's face, soft in the lamp light, Hank's disappointment vanishes. They spend a while looking through the tome - “Audubon. Birds of North America.” Connor explains. “There are eight volumes here. The only copy in the world.” Connor talks, awed, over the illustrations. His knowledge is vast and impressive and Hank is entranced by his low, pleasant monologue. 

After a while, Hank stops looking at the illustrations and studies Connor’s face instead. He's beautiful. Really as beautiful as the first photograph he sent to Hank, even more so, here in the light. The curl of hair over his left eye, the dark freckles lining his top lip. Hank places one hand over Connor’s, over the deep grey-blue feathers of a heron. 

“Hank,” Connor whispers. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know.” Hank thinks of Connor’s life beyond him, his family, his work. “Tell me you don’t want to.”

Connor swallows. “No. No. I want to.” And suddenly, Connor is kissing him, here in the low lamp light, kissing him hard enough to leave bruises. Hank winds his hands into Connor curls and it’s happening, this, this glorious thing that he’s been dreaming about for nearly a year. 

“We can’t,” Connor gasps. Hank’s stomach falls. Connor continues, his hand resting in the middle of Hank’s chest. “Not here. The books.” 

Hank laughs. “Then come back to my rooms.”

So Hank takes him back to his rooms. Finally, finally. He puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders, undoes his tie, pushes back his shirt to reveal his pale collar bones. He presses kisses to the freckles on his chest.

He hadn’t realised the depths of his own longing. Connor spends a long time marvelling over Hank’s body. He touches every inch of his skin, presses kisses to every one of his scars - the worn map of a life long lived. His fingers are light, delicate. His lips are tentative. 

“I’m not made of glass, boy,” Hank growls, his hand in Connor’s hair. Desire floods him, pumping faster with every beat of his heart. 

He watches Connor’s eyes darken - and he sucks a sharp, purple bruise to the base of Hank’s throat. Hank moans into the feeling, sudden pain as glorious as sunlight. They spend the night together, wrapped around one another. Hank’s sure that there is no part of Connor’s body that he has not touched with his hands, his mouth.

He is certain that he must be the luckiest man alive.

They only sleep when the sun seeps in through the curtains. Hank dreams of Connor’s brown eyes, the smell of his skin. The sounds he made when Hank was pressed against him, when Hank’s hands were wrapped around him.

He wakes to those same brown eyes watching him intently, and he thinks, with a jolt of his heart, lovingly. But it comes to an end, as these things must do. Connor goes back to Florida a few days later. Hank sees him off with a professional handshake, a promise to keep up their correspondence. 

They had said their real goodbyes that morning, Connor’s mouth pressed against Hank’s. “I’ll miss you, when you’re gone. I’ll miss you.”

Hank had responded with kisses, for he had no words. 

Hank heads back to his estate the next day, unable to find a reason to stay in Ann Arbor without Connor. 

They continue to write letters to each other with even more frequency, and although it's not likely that correspondence between two scientists would be intercepted, they still take care about the content of their letters. 

"I think about the banks of Lake Superior," Connor writes. "Surely there are many birds and beasts that we do not have in the South. Send me a photograph." Hank knows that he does not want photographs of the wildlife. They continue to look for excuses to see one another, but none arise. It is tough for either to leave their current situations, and they get by on the sweet words squeezed between the formal, polished lines of their letters. 

A few photographs. Memories. 

In the autumn, Hank puts out advertisements looking for an assistant. Someone to be his apprentice, to live on his estate and manage his paperwork, help him on the occasional dig. He gets a few applications. He chooses none of them. 

A month or so after the application goes out, he receives a thick envelope from another applicant. It is postmarked Florida. Hank recognises the handwriting. 

Connor Stern, a promising young naturalist who would appreciate the study in another area of natural history. He smiles as he reads Connor's words, written as though Hank doesn't already know all of these things about him, as if he hasn't memorised every one of their letters. He accepts the application and asks for Connor's to travel to him before the year is out. 

Hank tries hard not to think about the circumstances of Connor's life in Florida. He feels selfish to begin with, but then he remembers the feeling of Connor in his arms, and the feeling of selfishness dissolves beneath joy. 

Connor arrives in late October, 1924. He has very little with him, a few suitcases at most. He is not equipped for a Canadian winter and Hank knows that he will have to wear some of his furs. The image of Connor enters his mind, beautiful and red-cheeked from the cold. 

Hank lets Connor in, holds him in his arms for the first time in over four months. They kiss, and Connor's mouth is the most familiar shape. It is as if they had never been apart. 

They take dinner in the parlour and Hank asks Connor what he has been dying to know - how all of this has come to pass.

"You showed me a picture of your wife." Hank says, disbelieving. "Did she not mind you leaving?"

"Chloe?" Connor smiles, takes a sip of his drink. "Chloe has her own sweetheart," Connor explains. "Some fiery redhead. Her name is North. Ironic," he continues, spearing some food on his fork. "I believe she's from Texas, originally."

"Oh!" Hank can't hide his surprise.

"We live in modern times, Dr Anderson." 

They sleep together in Hank's bed, waking in the morning to the snow swirling out over the icy waters of the Great Lake. Connor's hand finds Hank's, places it over his own heart. He can feel Connor's heart beat beneath his fingertips - right where it belongs. 

They rise at noon, moving fluidly around each other, working out each other's routine. It seems too perfect, too much to take in. Hank presses a kiss behind Connor's ear. Connor brushes a strand of Hank's hair away from his face. There are so many words yet to be said, and it seems impossible that they are no longer reliant on pen and paper, words separated by week-long stretches of waiting. They have time for these words now, in this house on the snow covered banks. 

"I'm afraid I have one problem, Hank," Connor says, as Hank pours them both tea. Hank cannot believe that there can be anything to disturb their new found peace.

"I'm rather overqualified to be your assistant."

Hank laughs, the freest he's laughed in months.

"Well," Hank says, noting the twinkle in the Connor's eye. "How about you just live here and I'll deal with my own damn mail?"

"I think I'd like that," Connor replies, with a bright smile.


	2. eastbourne

A year into their relationship, Connor receives a grant to study the coastline in the south of England. He’s nervous at first, even thinks about turning the opportunity down. Most of his recent work has been in entomology, he’s not sure he’s cut out for the windy coastline and it’s strange, hardy wildlife. 

Most of all, he doesn’t want to leave Hank. But Hank tells him not to be so silly, it’s an opportunity that most of kill for.

After all, the combination of a long career and a frugal lifestyle has left Hank with enough money to leave his own study for a while. 

“I could come with you,” Hank says one evening as they take dinner overlooking the golden disc of the lake. “To England.”

Connor practically climbs over the table into his lap, laying kisses along his cheekbone.

“Oh.” Hank grins. “Only if you want.”

Connor’s patron is a rich relative of his friend Dr Manfred, too old for his own field study now, but interested in investing in new and established talent. He rents Connor a cottage near Eastbourne, on the rugged chalk coastline. 

“There are two bedrooms, should you need to bring an assistant,” he writes. Connor’s heart flutters. He often wonders how much people have worked about his and Hank’s... situation. 

Connor writes to thank him and uses his stipend to book two boat tickets to England. They depart in March, Connor’s luggage comprising of mostly empty specimen cases and notebooks waiting to be filled. The crossing is relatively smooth. Of course Sumo has to come with them too, he lolls over Hank’s lap on deck, watching the white spume below them. 

Their cottage is on the crest of a hill overlooking the sea on one side and the rolling fields on the other. It’s like nowhere Connor has ever been before. There are two bedrooms, as promised, each with a single bed. Connor imagines sleeping separately from Hank, when he has not spent a night away from him in the past year. The thought makes his stomach fall, a sickening drop that makes him wonder if he’s made a mistake coming here. 

Hank sees the expression on his face. “Are you okay?” He asks, laying his hand against the small of Connor’s back. 

Connor is standing in the corridor between the bedrooms, looking uselessly between them. “I don’t want to sleep without you,” he says, his voice small. Hank kisses him. 

“Will you warm some water for tea?” He asks, and Connor nods.

He can hear scraping and creaking from the floorboards above him. When Hank calls him, Connor sees that he’s moved one bed frame into the room at the front of the house, pushed the two beds together to make a double bed beneath the window. It overlooks the crashing face of the sea. 

They spend the first week or so just settling in, walking up to the small village or taking the perilous path down to the pebble beach. In one direction, the great white faces of the Seven Sisters cliffs rise like sheer monoliths from the depths of the sea. Connor picks up shells and puts them in his pockets, oysters and pockmarked limpets and mother of pearl, gleaming like quicksilver. 

At this time of the year, the beach is mostly empty, so Hank takes Connor’s hand, pulling him close to his side. The sun is high and the wind is wild, blowing Hank’s silver hair around his face. Connor laughs. The sea air has made Hank’s cheeks flushed, his eyes far bluer than any one of the waves. 

They watch Sumo as he frolics on the pebbles, chasing the crows that fly in and out of cracks in the cliffs, dark shadows against the white chalk. Hank presses his lips against Connor’s cheek, kissing the salt away from his skin. How very lucky they both are. 

“You know, Connor,” Hank says, eyes trained on the horizon, “if it were allowed, I’d marry you.”

Connor feels his heart crash as hard as the waves, breaking themselves on the shore. “Do you mean that?” He asks, his words are small, his throat tight. Hank nods.

“Of course.”

The emotion that fills him is bittersweet, a sadness that he cannot grant Hank this wish - but at the same time, wheeling, soaring joy that it would be his wish at all. 

“Maybe one day,” Connor mutters, leaning against Hank’s side. Hank presses a kiss to the top of his head, where his dark curls have been made unruly by the rough wind.

They both know his words have no weight to them. They will not come to pass. Hank smiles all the same.

“Yes. Perhaps.”


	3. eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor is called upon to work the slide projector for Hank at one of his (rare, nowadays) public appearances. He finds the whole thing interesting in more ways than one.

Connor is called upon to work the slide projector for Hank at one of his (rare, nowadays) public appearances. He keeps missing cues to change the plates because of how much he likes watching Hank speak. His presence is so commanding, the way he addresses the room, the way they listen rapt as he discusses his findings. The broad band of his shadow as he crosses through the beam from the projector. Connor’s not really seen this side of Hank before. 

In his studies, he is reverent, calm, focused. The same when he takes Connor to their bed.

But this? It’s giving Connor ideas. So he asks him that same evening, over dinner. They’ve booked a room in a hotel for the night - by the water, two twin beds pushed together. 

“When was the last time you presented like that?” 

Hank considers. “Four years ago? Five?” 

The dining room around them is practically empty, but Connor still considers the delicacy of his words. “I enjoyed watching you speak.”

“Thank you.” Hank nods, spears a piece of fish.

“I mean-” Perhaps Hank hasn’t quite understood. “I enjoyed it very much.”

“Oh?” Hank puts down his fork, catching on to the intonation in Connor’s voice. “That much?”

“Your presence. The way you spoke to the room.” Connor remembers, his chest tight. “I’ve not seen you like that before.”

Hank grins. “Well. You flatter me.”

“Perhaps...” Connor pauses, unsure of how to continue without being too brash. “Perhaps you could bring some of that to the bedroom.”

Hank frowns. “You’d have me bring the projector in in the evenings?”

Despite his embarrassment, Connor can’t help but laugh. “Not exactly.”

“Then what?” Hank asks, his attention entirely focused on Connor now.

“That presence. That command.” Connor’s heart flutters nervously. “Your control of the room.”

The blue in Hank’s eyes glints in the low light. “Perhaps the dinner table is not the place to discuss this.”

Connor nods, noting the way that Hank grins, his gaze dips to observe him closely. He feels watched; the feeling makes a spark of something bright and hot shoot up his spine. 

The rest of the dinner passes in a comfortable near silence, but Connor can feel this thing resting between them, too hot to touch. Hank watches him, carefully, studious, until Connor’s whole body is vibrating with the promise of Hank’s hands on him. 

When they finally make it back to the room, it is fully dark outside. Their lodgings have a small electric light, but Hank leaves it in favour of a couple of oil lamps. They fill the room with a low, orange glow. Connor thinks the room is like the inside of a chip of amber. 

Usually, they would find themselves in a mutual embrace, hands roaming to slide off jackets and undo shirt buttons. Lips finding skin well-known.

But not this time. Hank slides off his overcoat and hangs it on the back of the door.

He gestures to the bed. “Sit down.” His voice is low and heavy in the quiet of the room, that same commanding tone Connor had heard earlier in the day in the crowded lecture hall. He has no choice but to do as he is told. 

Connor sits on the edge of the bed, and Hank moves close to him, one hand cupping his jaw. “If you want this differently, or you want to stop, you only have to ask.”

“I know.”

“Good. Let me undress you.” The command makes Connor’s gut coil tightly. He likes Hank’s voice like this, with a little hardness to it. And his hands have the same urgency, less gentle than Connor is used to, almost rough as he pushes Connor’s jacket off his shoulders and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

“I have seen many wonders,” Hank mutters, his lips tracing over Connor’s collarbone, pressing against the dark freckles that line his throat. “But nothing quite so beautiful as you.”

His breath hitches at the admission, and his hands grasp for Hank’s upper arms. Hank pauses. 

“No.” His fingers wrap around Connor’s wrists and replace his hands on the bedspread beside his thighs. “You’re just to watch, for now.”

Connor shifts a little, arousal coursing in him in a sudden wave. In the low light, Hank’s eyes are very dark. “Okay,” he mutters. His voice shakes.

“Good. You’re doing well.” He hadn’t expected the praise, honestly, and in Hank’s rough, commanding tone, it makes Connor quake. 

“Thank you.”

“Shh.” Hank presses a finger against Connor’s lips. “Quiet. Let me see the rest of you.” 

Connor unbuckles his belt and pulls off his trousers, standing before Hank in only his underclothes. Hank is still fully dressed and he regards Connor with a level stare. 

“Underclothes as well, please. I want to see all of you.” 

Connor obliges. His skin glows pale gold in the light, each one of his freckles like a dark star. Hank watches him as he undresses, it seems that no line of his body goes unobserved beneath his gaze.

“Good.” Hank holds out a hand. “Come here.” 

Connor goes to him, and Hank wraps his hand around his waist. “You. You.” No more needs to be said. 

Even with the adoption of this sterner tone and character, Hank seems incapable of this wonder, close to reverence, when Connor is beneath his hands. Hank bends his head to kiss the soft, milky skin of Connor stomach, just below his belly button. The birthmark on his hip that is shaped like the pearly coil of a shell. 

He presses his teeth to the edge of Connor’s hip and the sharpness makes Connor’s breath catch. Hank’s hands work circles over Connor’s waist, his back, around to cup the flesh of his behind. Connor’s fists clench and unclench as Hank touches him, slow and studious and sweet. He’s half hard with the sensation of it. 

“Good,” Hank says again, and moves to kneel at the floor between Connor’s legs, pressing his tongue against the head of Connor’s cock. Connor breathes, a single steady stream, trying to keep his hips from bucking anymore into the warmth of Hank’s mouth. 

Hank takes Connor easily, again and again until Connor is aching, lips bitten raw from the effort of keeping himself quiet. Hank had told him to, after all. He was only to watch. 

There’s a tightening in his gut, building slow as the turn of cogs. “Hank...” his name slips from Connor’s lips like the beginning of a prayer. He’s not going to last much longer with Hank’s mouth on him like this.

Hank has long since learned the cues of his body and he pulls away, leaving Connor feeling suddenly empty in the cool air. 

“You’re beautiful.” Hank presses a kiss to Connor’s hip. “What a gift I have been given.” 

His thumb presses against the shadow left behind by his lips. Hank stands and Connor is taken aback, as he so often is, by Hank’s stature. He remembers that day - a year ago now - when he had first laid eyes upon Hank, after months of imagining. The square of his shoulders, his thighs stretching out the fine linen of his trousers. The solid barrel of his chest and stomach, pressing close now in the space between them. 

A weak gasp escapes from between Connor’s lips as Hank moves closer, his fingers at Connor’s upper arms. His hands are almost large enough to touch finger and thumb around Connor’s bicep. He’s very aware of the fact that Hank is clothed, and that he is not. The disparity sends a wave of longing through him, and suddenly he wishes that Hank’s hands were all over him, inside him, touching every inch of his bare skin. 

“On your knees,” Hank says, and the command rumbles through his chest and into Connor’s, heady and dark. Connor kneels, his hands wandering along Hank’s thighs to find the fastening at the waist of his trousers. He pushes them to his knees. The sight of Hank’s arousal, straining the front of his underwear, makes Connor’s mouth water. His fingers hook into Hank’s waistband, but suddenly, there are hands at his wrists.

“No.” Hank’s voice is sharp, commanding. “Not yet.”

Connor frowns, but his confusion doesn’t last long. Hank’s hand is at the back of his head, tangled in the curls there, guiding him forward until his mouth is pressed against the thin cotton. And beneath it, the heat of Hank’s skin. 

He mouths at Hank through the fabric, his tongue pressing flat, until Hank is breathing heavily above him, the fingers in his hair flexing - pulling a little through his curls. Connor sits back, his cheeks warm, his own cock heavy against his thigh. Hank looks down at him, and Connor can see that the heat of his mouth, the rough friction against his cock has brought Hank closer to the edge that he realised. His eyes are heavy lidded, his silver hair sticking to his temples in loose waves. 

“My god. Connor,” Hank hisses, pulling his undergarments down to reveal himself, flushed, heavy, the thick head that Connor can’t help but imagining stretching his lips wide.

“Be good for me.”

Connor doesn’t need to be told twice. He swallows as much of Hank as he can at first, desperate after the sensation of him clothed. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of having Hank inside him like this, warm and heavy on his tongue. The velvet slide of his skin. The low rumbling moan from the depths of Hank’s chest.   
Connor’s done this more times than he can count; usually, Hank lets Connor go at his own pace, low gasps, a quiet warning when he’s close. But this time? It’s different. Hank’s hand stays in Connor’s hair, just wound in his curls, at first. At first. 

“Will you do this how I want it?” Hank asks. Connor nods. he would go to the ends of the earth for Hank and he suspects - no, he knows - that Hank would do the same for him. He trusts Hank. Trusts the weight of his hands, his steady words. 

“Good.” Hank clutches his hand a little tighter and begins to guide Connor’s head, slow and shallow at first. Connor moans, his jaw as slack as he can make it to accommodate Hank’s considerable girth. The sound makes Hank hiss sharply, his hips stuttering forward. 

“Do that again.” Connor is only too happy to oblige, moaning around Hank’s length until the grip on the back of his head grows tighter, his movements jerky, less considered. Hank’s breathing is uneven, shallow gasps that Connor knows means he is close. Connor wonders if he will just keep going until he spills into his mouth, with a final cry and buck of his hips. He doesn’t think he would mind. The feeling of Hank’s hand clenching wildly in his hair.

But he doesn’t. He pulls Connor away from him, slow, controlled. Connor sits back on his heels, watching Hank as he pulls his hair away from his face, securing it with the dark loop of string that he keeps around his wrist.

“Come here to me,” he says, and Connor stands, his face coming to rest in the crook of Hank’s neck. “My wonderful boy,” Hank whispers, his breath warm against Connor’s ear. “Sweet thing.”

Connor hums at the platitudes, the brief softening in Hank’s voice.

Hank lets the moment rest before stepping back, his finger under Connor’s chin. “Okay. On the bed.” Hank has returned the edge to his voice, and it makes Connor shiver, a sharp spark which finds even his fingertips. It burns like coal embers, low in his gut.

Connor kneels on the bed, his head bowed. 

“No, no.” Hank’s hand is at his waist, the dip in the small of his back. “On your back. I want to see you.”

Connor’s chest tightens and he has to steady himself for a moment before he can comply, turning onto his back and resting against the pillows. 

Hank leans over him, between the V of his thighs, so close that he can hear his breath, smell the salt of his skin. Hank’s arms are on either side of his body and he kisses him, long and slow. Connor feels his hips rise, involuntary, looking for friction with Hank’s hot mouth on his. 

“Stay still.” Hank speaks the words against Connor’s lips. “Let me look at you.” 

And he does, his hands exploring every inch of Connor’s body until he’s biting kisses to the soft inside of his thighs. Connor can sense what will come next, and his whole body is tense with the expectation of it, his arousal coursing so thick and fast it almost hurts. Hank sucks his thumb into his own mouth, running the pad down Connor’s stomach, over his aching cock, down between his legs. Connor cries out at the sensation, not even of being filled, but at the very promise of it. His thighs are trembling. Hank pulls back, getting to his feet. 

“Stay quiet, please.” He goes to their bags and pulls out a small jar. “Do you think you can do that?”

Connor nods, although he’s really not sure if that’s true. 

“Good.” Hank hands are under his hips, lifting him. Hank - still fully dressed, Connor thinks, god, still as he was sat at the dinner table - slicks himself, moves between Connor’s thighs. 

“Shall I?” is all he asks, although with the thick tip of Hank’s cock pressed at his entrance, there is no question about it.

Connor nods. By the time Hank pushes inside him, Connor is already wound tight enough to snap. He starts slow, achingly so, until Connor has to bite down on his fist to keep from crying out. 

"That's it," Hank murmurs, both his hands under Connor's thighs, holding him steady. His voice cracks a little beneath the stern guise, and Connor is flooded with affection for him, thick and sweet as honey. 

"Connor." Hank breathes, fingers on gripping hard enough to bruise. Strands of his silver hair have escaped to fall loose over his forehead. Hank quickens his pace, deepening the thrust of his hips, and when the head of his cock drags over that tight, sweet spot in Connor, he feels sparks fly wildly within him. 

He must have gasped Hank's name, because Hank speaks: "I'm here, darling."

Hank finds that spot again and again, brushing against it until Connor is so close to the edge that his hips start to move away from Hank's grip, erratic. He relishes the feeling of Hank's body on top of him, solid and broad, his thick fingers grabbing at the back of his thighs. 

When Hank finally takes him in hand, Connor can't help the moan that falls from his lips. It only takes a few strokes before Connor comes with a cry muffled only by his own fingers, spilling over Hank's hand, his own belly. Hank leans to kiss him, one hand now pressed flat against Connor's chest, the other angling Connor's hips so he can press into him, deep and steady.

Connor has heard tell of people using protective measures when they make love like this. He can understand, although he cannot imagine not feeling the warmth of Hank inside him, the sensation that comes after the final desperate thrusts of his hips. His head thrown back as if to see the stars. 

When they are clean, Hank removes his overshirt and takes Connor into his arms, cradling him close. One of the oil lamps has sputtered out, leaving the room in half darkness. Connor doesn't mind. 

"Was that all you expected?" Hank asks, his hand stroking through Connor's hair.

Connor nods. "I enjoyed it. Very much."

"As much as my lectures?" Connor's eyes are closed, but he can sense Hank's grin.

"Oh no. Not as much as that,” he replies, and Hank cuffs his shoulder. 

"I love you." Hank murmurs, his mouth pressed against Connor's temple.

"I love you." Connor says. 

He knows that no matter how many times the seasons change, or how many ways Hank takes him in the low light of their quarters, that will remain constant. Eternal.

**Author's Note:**

> come and follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/andpersephone)!


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